Blinded By the Light
by JacksBoonie
Summary: Sam can hear, can smell, can feel and touch and taste. The only thing he can't do...is see. He is blind. Dean is too late to stop it. How will Sam save his brother's soul from being dragged to hell? More importantly, how will he survive once Dean is gone?


AN: Well, I have had this one sitting around for a little while and decided that it needed to be shared now that things are rolling again with the series (which makes me _very_ happy!).

Summary: Sam's eyesight is gone, taken by Doc Benton before his brother can intervene. How is he supposed to save Dean's soul now? More importantly, how is he supposed to survive once Dean is in hell?

This is set towards the end of Season 03, starting at the end of Episode 15 (_Time is On My Side_), and will continue into Season 04 with as much dialogue from the series as possible (so I guess this is the official SPOILER ALERT for those of you who haven't seen these seasons). The scenes with Sam, at least, seeing as this is told in the first person. We'll see how much gets complicated along the way, yeah? Awesome. :) Enjoy, my friends. This is going to be a long journey . . . .

Disclaimer: I do not own the television series_ Supernatural_. I do not own the characters of the television series _Supernatural_.

_Blinded By the Light_

_Chapter One:_

I sit up-right against a splintered beam, my teeth grinding as lightening pain throbs through darkness—my new home. I listen to the sounds of the demented doctor's wailing as Dean dissects him piece by piece; the tearing of flesh, the sawing and breaking of bone, the _snick snick snick _of clipped stitches.

I can hear everything, can smell the stale scent of dusty blood pumped through ancient veins far past their time, can feel my brother's satisfaction rolling off of him in waves and smashing against my sweat-slicked skin, can taste rage and horror, and I wonder if it's mine or Dean's—or if it belongs to the both of us.

The only thing that I can't do—is _see_.

I am blind, my eyes ripped from their sockets as I'd lain on some primal medical table by a doctor who looks very much like a replica of Frankenstein's monster. Dean was too late to stop it, but he's doing his best to make up for it now.

And I'm glad to hear the agony that mirrors what I keep barricaded deep in my throat.

0 o 0 o 0

There is no time for hospitals.

Ordinarily, Dean would disagree, but for once this fact proves true. There is little time left before my brother's soul is taken, before Lilith rears her ugly head and sets her hounds on him. As much as Dean wants me to stay in a hospital bed after my surgery, we can't afford such a luxury.

So, under cover of night—and a great deal of flirting with night-staff nurses on Dean's part—Bobby, Dean, and I steal away to the familiar junkyard that I will never be able to see again.

This is what I think of as I lay in my usual bed at Bobby's house, recuperating from—_everything_.

I try to concentrate on what exact shade of gray my bedspread has always been, what the shape of the water stain on the ceiling above his my bed reminds me of, how Dean looks when he is angry or snarky or happy. Dull images flash behind my non-existent eyes, growing dimmer and dimmer the more I try to remember.

First, I can't picture Dean's raised eyebrows or Bobby's smirk. Next, the color of my brother's eyes and our father's rare but genuine smile. Then, the Impala and Bobby's favorite hat. The last to go is Dean's face, slowly disintegrating into ashen nothing until I really _am _left alone in the dark.

And _this _I mourn the most.

0 o 0 o 0

I wake on Dean's second-to-last day.

Grease hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the smell of over-salted eggs, week-old squeezed orange juice, and burnt toast. I sit up, finding my balance system not yet used to eternal darkness. Dean and Bobby are talking in the kitchen, and even though the door is closed and the two are down a hallway behind more closed doors, I can hear them with little difficulty.

My keen senses started adapting to my lack of sight almost instantly during my waking moments, which were few and far between. Bobby kept me heavily medicated throughout the whole ordeal, and I figure that the only reason I'm awake _now _is because Bobby has yet to give me a morning dose of _sleep-away_.

The older man's tired voice echoes with a tinny vibration in my perked ears. "You don't have time for this, Dean. You need to be out _there_, looking for a stop to all this." Silverware and plastic plates clatter against the kitchen counter. "I can look after Sam. But he _needs _you to keep fighting."

"I'm not abandoning him like this, Bobby," Dean argues angrily. I can hear the huskiness building in my brother's voice. "Not now."

Bobby gives a huff of annoyance. "And what d'ya think's gonna happen in a couple of days when the hell hounds come lookin' for you? You're gonna leave him a whole helluva lot worse than he is now."

I draw back the sheet tangled around me and swing my legs over the side of the bed, sucking in a tight breath as my bare feet press firmly onto the cold floorboards. I drum my toes against the solid surface before fumbling for the post at the head of the bed and grasping it tightly with my right hand.

My eye sockets throb bluntly, and with my other hand I press numb fingers to my left cheek, slowly inching upward. The moment my fingertips graze rigid hospital-issue tape and gauze, I hiss and pull back. Fragments of my eye muscles are still intact, and every pull of their habitual movement sends shockwaves of prickling pain through my skull.

I can still feel them, my eyes, and I almost believe that if I take off the bandages, I'll be able to see again. But the black that engulfs my vision is not caused by a mere couple of pressure patches. My eyes are gone. _Gone_. And there is no way to fix that. The sooner I accept that, the better off _everyone _will be.

Taking a few steadying breaths and swallowing hard on a dry throat, I shift my weight and begin to stand. Almost immediately, I have to sit back down. Who knew that a room could spin so violently, even when you can't see it? Another deep breath and another try, this one more successful. The floor still jolts beneath my feet, but I'm at least able to stay upright.

_Now for the hard part, Sam-boy_, I say to myself. For a moment, I just stand there, holding my breath and listening to the sound of my heart pound. I can feel each beat as if the life organ is attempting to escape by ramming itself against my ribcage. I shake my head of the thought and try to concentrate on something else. Dean and Bobby are still arguing in the kitchen.

"Bobby . . . there's no way I'm getting out of this deal."

The older man's breath hitches. "Boy, don't you dare—"

"I'm not _wasting _my last two days on earth chasing down something that doesn't exist." There is a quiet moment before Dean takes a breath and continues. "I'm going to be _here_ with my brother, where I _belong_."

I grind my is giving up life to be with his little brother. Dean, who has always protected me, made sure I had enough food and sleep, taught me how to take care of myself on hunts. I wanted to go to school, and Dean wanted that for me, too. But he wouldn't go against Dad; he wouldn't take sides. He was stuck in the middle, warring between being my brother and Dad's super-soldier son.

I won't let him. I won't sit by and let him die because his stupid younger brother needs to be taken care of. Things are happening. _Fast_. And the only way to win is to shut my cakehole and do what I have to do to keep Dean around.

The first step is always the hardest, or so they say. I'm not quite sure who _they _are, but they obviously didn't meant _literal _steps. Within the first few shuffles of my feet, I lose my balance and fall into the nightstand. I stay very still for a moment after that, listening for any signs that my efforts have alerted the two in the kitchen. Their conversation continues uninterrupted.

"Just think about it, will ya?" Bobby pleads. "A day apart ain't gonna kill either of you, especially if you find something." Good ol' Bobby—optimistic to the end. I can almost hear the cogs whirring in Dean's head.

"I'll think about it," he says finally. I can still hear the defiance in my brother's tone, but it's subdued—for now. Plates and glasses thunk dully as they're set on Bobby's dining room table. A sizzling skillet is dumped into the sink, cool water causing it to hiss and scream as its warmth is forced away.

Despite the unappetizing smells wafting in the humid air of the room, my stomach growls, and I grunt in pain. When was the last time I actually ate anything? Bobby's soggy scrambled eggs and blackened toast are sounding better and better with every passing moment.

Another couple of steps, however, and my shins feel the wrath of Dean's twin bed across from my own. Bobby has always found it funny that we share a room, even when we don't necessarily have to. The older man's home has plenty of rooms—including a semi-empty basement. But we Winchesters are just too used to two-bed motel rooms and the confined space of the Impala.

I sigh as I remember the cold of the passenger-side window pressed against my cheek, the squeak of the car's interior when either Dean or I shift during the night, stiff muscles in my neck the morning after. I wish I could recall the sight of the stars when we reach a point beyond city lights or the drizzle of drool that glistens on Dean's chin until morning when he hastily wipes it away. It's always made me laugh. Now, there is little to laugh about.

I hiss and rub at my abused shins furiously before straightening again. Sighing and shaking my head, I jut my arms out, fingers reaching, searching. Dean might laugh if he could see me now. _I _might laugh at myself if the situation weren't so . . . unamusing.

My fingertips graze the wall, and I sigh in relief, pressing my palms flat against the smooth, plastered surface. _Now, which way to go . . . ?_ Releasing a shaky breath, I slide my right hand along the wall, muscles stretching until my arm begins to ache. _Nothing but more wall _that_ way._ On my left, I barely have to unbend my elbow before my fingers touch the door frame, groping for the knob. After a frustrating moment, in which I seriously contemplate my life without sight, my hand grasps the doorknob firmly and twists with unnecessary force. The door creaks as it opens, and I wince, hearing every arthritic crack in the hinges and the wood.

Still no reaction from the two in the kitchen. I use their banter to distract myself from the overwhelming anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"So, what are you two planning on doing _if _I go anywhere?" Dean asks curiously, making a point to place a large amount of inflection on the "if." I can hear the smirk in my brother's voice.

A rustle of fabric—a shrug from Bobby (it's amazing what I'm picking up already). "I figured the kid would probably just . . . sleep, or somethin'."

_Not likely_, I think, rounding the door frame and wiggling my toes in the shag rug that lines the hallway. Once upon a time, I begged Bobby to update his house with new furnishings. Now, I'm very glad that the older man didn't take my advice; the familiarity is doing me a world of good. Carefully, I inch my way down the corridor, pressing my back flush against the wall as if trying to make my way across the ledge of a very tall building.

"Yeah?" Dean asks. "And what will _you_ do while sleeping beauty slumbers on?"

I release a breathy laugh, an ease slowly beginning to claim my fear. Dean has an uncanny ability to make me laugh and/or smile at least 99 percent of the time. The rare one percent is when my older brother uses his wit and charm to gloss over certain subjects—like talking about his deal with the crossroads demon and his feelings about his _impending doom_, as cliché as that sounds. This thought sobers me quite a bit, and I clench my jaw in an attempt to drive it away.

"Research," Bobby sighs, "for you . . . and for Sam."

The silence that follows makes me stop in my tracks. _For me? _I think, attempting to press myself further against the wall and listening hard.

"For Sam?" Dean unknowingly echoes my thoughts.

"Yeah, you know," Bobby replies uncomfortably. "He's gonna . . . need some things."

"What _kind_ of things?" Dean's tone is defensive, just as it always is when I'm involved.

More rustling fabric—another shrug from the older man. "I don't know, ya idjit. Things like . . . computers that read out loud or printers that print stuff in braille." Bobby takes a breath. "Things he's gonna need now that . . . ."

Dean is very quiet before he gives a soft, "Oh."

_Oh, _I repeat, and I'm ashamed to think it. Bobby has been no less than a father to us since John's death—hell, even _before _it. How could I _not_ think that Bobby would do anything and everything to help me through this?

"Bobby, that's . . . I don't know what . . . You—"

"Just," Bobby interrupts, "get the jam outta the fridge, wouldja?" Dean huffs with what I assume is relief. He's never been very good with _thank yous_. "And check on your brother. He's been quieter than usual this morning."

_Quieter_, I think with amusement. _Right_.

I stop as my foot comes into contact with a small table that I know to be the halfway marker down the hallway. I also know that I'm now less than a few feet from the kitchen door that stands directly across from me.

The refrigerator door opens, a jam jar is slid across the slotted metal shelving, and the door closes again, various glass bottles clinking together briefly. It's now or never.

I raise an arm, hand outstretched and searching as I take one step, then another. On the third step, I lose my balance and stumble, losing my bearing.

"Damn it," I mutter just as the kitchen door opens.

A pregnant pause, then Dean's incredulous exhalation. "Sam, what . . . ."

We're facing each other, that much I can tell. "Dean?" I call, sounding far more pathetic than I intend to. I raise my arms searchingly, fingers finding Dean's soft T-shirt and taking hold.

A warm pair of arms come up and around me, squeezing tight. "Jesus, Sammy," he whispers. I feel my brother's chest shudder with each breath, his heart pounding ferociously. "What are you doing up? You should be resting."

I shake my head, pulling back from the embrace. "No," I say defiantly. "I should be out there with _you_, helping you find Lilith."

Dean sighs. "You know I can't let you do that."

"I'm _blind_, Dean. That doesn't mean I've forgotten how to fight."

"But it's different, now."

"_How_?" I demand, fisting the fabric at Dean's shoulders.

"Sam—"

"_How has it changed, Dean_?"

"_You can't see, Sammy!_"

A heavy silence drops over the room. I can hear Dean's harsh breathing, can feel his shoulders shaking. Hesitantly, my hand slides across Dean's collar bone, my fingers carefully tracing a pathway up my brother's neck, across a strong jawline, and mapping Dean's face.

It's a part of the other man that I've always been denied access to. Granted, Dean is only allowing it now because of the circumstances, but I've learned to take what I can get when it comes to my brother.

Dean's lips are drawn into tight lines. The skin beneath his eyes is puffy and his eyelashes are wet with clinging tears. I run my thumb across his forehead, then down the bridge of his nose before letting both hands slide back down to his broad shoulders.

"No," I say softly. "I can't." I take a steadying breath. "But I'm still your damn brother, and I'm going to help you do this."

0 o 0 o 0

Breakfast isn't as awkward as I thought it would be. I do fairly well with the toast, hitting only a couple of snags with using a fork. The first time I drop scrambled eggs in my lap, no one says anything. The second time, I can tell that Bobby and Dean sense my frustration. And the third time, I drop the fork along _with _the eggs.

"Need a drop cloth over there, Sammy?" Dean asks casually. I sit very still for a moment before a smirk appears on my face. I let out a chuckle, which crescendos into hysterical laughter that neither Dean or Bobby can resist. My sides ache, and I revel in the moment of genuine normalcy . . . Well, normal for _us_.

Afterward, Bobby and I discuss everything the older man learned from the doctor before our escape from the hospital; meds and cleaning and bandaging. I'll need help at first, but eventually I'll get the hang of it all.

The more awkward things, like using the bathroom and taking showers, are explained briefly and with as little detail as either of us are willing to allow. Sitting _down_ on the toilet is probably the best way to prevent unnecessary messes. And until I regain some sort of a balance system, showers are out of the question.

"At least you'll finally get to use those bath salts you keep getting for Christmas," Dean amends. I desperately wish I could roll my eyes. The muscles attempt the movement out of habit, causing some discomfort. It's strange not feeling that pressure against my eyelids. Once or twice, my fingers itch to press on the gauze covering my empty eye sockets. Will they feel hollow? Will I look like a skeleton when the pressure patches are removed?

Finally, when I'm at the bathroom sink with Bobby, Dean leaning somewhere outside the door frame, I remove the bandages, gingerly prodding my eyelids with my fingertips. "They still feel like they're _there_," I say absently.

"Your eye muscles are swollen," Bobby explains. "When the swelling goes down, you'll feel the difference."

I nod and lower my hands to the counter. "So, what do I need to do?"

Bobby takes my left hand, placing something in my palm. "This is the saline solution. It's what you gotta use to flush your eye sockets out." I turn the small plastic container around in my hand a few times. It isn't more than a couple of inches long, and the casing is slender and flexible. I can hear the liquid inside the tube slosh from side to side faintly. "The top, here—" Bobby pinches one end until I hear a _snap_. "—bends back, and that opens the tube. Then, all you gotta do is squeeze, and the saline squirts out." I nod. It seems simple enough. Bobby continues with his instructions. "You'll have to pull your eyelids open, usually just the bottom lid. Doc says you won't be able to open them without some sort of outside force."

I frown. "Really?" Well, that alleviates my fear of "staring" off mindlessly with empty eye sockets. I don't want to freak anyone out.

"Yeah. The eyeball is what keeps your eyelids up, so without those—"

Dean interrupts. "No creepy horror film stuff." There is a definite approval in his voice. Apparently his thoughts are on the same track as mine.

Bobby ignores the comment. "Go ahead and try it, Sam."

I take a shallow breath and hold it a moment before expelling it with a resigned, "Okay." Feeling around the sink, I make sure my head is poised over the porcelain basin. The fingers of my free hand gently prod the skin beneath my left eye before firmly pulling the lids apart.

"Eck." Dean makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.

I shift uncomfortably. "That bad?"

"Well, it's just . . . I mean, it's not like it's empty or anything, but . . . Your eye isn't there."

I huff and raise the saline solution, making sure the opening of the container is aligned with the space between the lower and upper lids. I squeeze. Out of instinct, my head jerks back, and I take a step away from the counter, rubbing furiously at the eye I've just accosted.

"Ah," I hiss, feeling Bobby's hand on my shoulder.

"Did it hurt?" Dean asks, his voice considerably closer than it had been before. With mild satisfaction, I hear a hint of worry in my brother's tone.

"No," I assure him. "No, it's just cold. And weird."

"Cold and weird," Dean repeats back strangely.

Regaining some composure, I swallow hard. "_Both_ eyes, huh?" I ask weakly.

"Both eyes," Bobby confirms. I can tell he's nodding.

"I don't suppose this is just a once-a-week thing . . . is it?"

"Sorry, kid," the older man sighs, his hand tightening on my shoulder. "Twice a day for now. Can't afford infection to set in."

"Right," I acknowledge with a wince. My eye socket still feels cold and wet and, yes, _weird_. And I'm pretty sure at least a drop or two of saline is still sliding around in there.

The second eye is just as horrifying an experience as the first, and the medicated gel that I have to squeeze on the inside of my lower lid is worse. I can feel it oozing over my eye muscles and out onto my eyelashes.

"This is disgusting," I decide when I'm finished.

"I'll say," Dean agrees mercilessly.

I scoff and cross my arms in what feels like a childish way. "How the hell am I supposed to do this everyday?"

"You'll learn," Bobby encourages. "Don't worry so much about it. It's part of your life now."

A thought strikes. "Bobby, you talked to the doctor about all this? I mean, _how _to do all this?"

"Well, _yeah_," Bobby says. "It's not like I knew what to do already. I ain't ever had to deal with anything like this before."

I wonder vaguely if our father, the great John Winchester, would have been able to handle any of this. If he was still alive, would he even be here? Or would he be off on some hunt, trying to convince himself that fighting the evil in the world is more important than looking after his _blind_ son?

I hate thinking such bitter thoughts about my father—my _dead_ father at that—but it's almost a learned impulse. John's name is enough to dredge up my worst memories.

"Thanks, Bobby," I say quietly, searching for and finding the older man's shoulder.

Bobby pats my back. "Don't worry about it, kid."

I take a breath in the silence that follows, turning back to the sink and grasping the counter with both hands. "So," I say after a moment of contemplation, "what do we do now?"

Dean takes a step closer to me and places a hand on my shoulder. "We fix this," he says determinedly. "I swear, Sammy, you'll see again."

I can't help but smirk. "One problem at a time, Dean."

0 o 0 o 0

We spend the remainder of the day in relative quiet. My head aches. My senses were already overly sensitive when I could _see_—this thanks to an extensive amount of training from an early age. Even so, my senses feel it necessary to further adapt, thus my headache.

My first mistake is trying to do something on my own. Mapping out Bobby's kitchen is more difficult than expected. The first cupboard I come to holds bowls and plates. The second seems to be full of spices, which I assume Bobby rarely uses. They may even be left over from when the older man's wife was still alive. The cupboard above the sink looms over even my head, and when I reach up to open it, several boxes and bags tumble onto my head and the floor. Something heavy scrapes against the cupboard's shelving, and I quickly step to the side, narrowly missing it.

I feel the small burst of air as it whooshes past my head, hear the harsh clatter as it strikes the linoleum. Hurried footfall, then Dean's frantic voice. "What happened? You okay, Sammy?"

I sigh and lean back against the counter. "Fine, just . . . ."

"Just _what_, kid?" Bobby asks with exasperation. "What's worth almost getting hit in the face with an _iron_?"

Ah, so that's what it is.

"Glass of water?" I shrug helplessly.

And I am—helpless, that is. I can't even get myself a glass of water. How am I going to help Dean? How am I going to help my _brother_?

Dean sighs, taking hold of my upper arm and squeezing. "Okay," he says softly. "Maybe next time just . . . ask for some help, yeah?"

So, the eldest of the remaining Winchesters realizes what I have—that I am now completely and utterly useless. And that I will soon be the _only_ Winchester and _still_ utterly useless.

" 'Kay," I say quietly. Dean shifts, reaching around me without removing his hand. A cupboard opens, and a glass cup slides across the shelf. Running water in the sink, then Dean presses a glass into my hand.

"It's about half full," he warns gently, his fingers lingering a bit longer than necessary.

I stop before the glass reaches my lips. "Half empty," I mutter, my voice muffled by the inside of the glass.

0 o 0 o 0

I listen to Dean's heavy breathing with a sense of ease. It's always calmed me down—if Dean lets his guard down, then I can too. It doesn't matter that Dean dropped off over a book that he was supposed to be reading. Dean has never liked research. It's boring, slow, and there are always too many directions that the information can take.

Even now, with my guidance, our results are nearly nonexistent.

Dean's breath hitches, and my ease dissipates. No more relaxing. As my older brother gasps in his sleep, several memories surface. They're fuzzy, filled with vague circumstances and blurry faces, but they're there.

Dean gasps again, and I hear him jerk in his chair. He's awake, and he's panicking. So I set out to do what I try to do my best at—take care of my big brother.

After calming Dean down and explaining that Bobby has a plan, I hesitantly reach out, searching for him—_any_ part of my brother. Dean's fingers meet mine, squeezing them before letting them drop again.

"Dean," I start, "we're cutting it close, I know." Close? 30 hours is not _close_. 30 hours is _go time_. "But we're gonna get this done. I don't care what it takes, Dean. You're not gonna go to hell." I wish I could see the look on his face, see if my words are helping at all. It's doubtful, but I can hope, right? "I'm not gonna let you . . . I swear."

Dean has barely said a word to me since I woke this morning. I have to wonder if my brother just wants to be careful . . . or if I'm just not good enough to help now that I'm damaged.

"Everything's gonna be okay."

"Yeah, okay," Dean says absently. The tone of his voice is uninspiring.

AN: I hope this is interesting enough to continue. I need something to concentrate on.  
Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.


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